


Morris Dancers - Dreaming Spires Radio

by greenapricot



Series: Dreaming Spires Radio [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Lewis Spring Challenge 2019, M/M, Nightvale AU, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: Trees are in full bloom all across our fair city, filling the streets with the scent of their perfume and the edges of our peripheral vision with those familiar swirling shadows that can’t quite be seen no matter how fast you turn your head.Do not fear the shadows, they mean you no harm. Unless you have personally offended their families.This is Dreaming Spires Radio and I am, as always, your host, James Hathaway.





	Morris Dancers - Dreaming Spires Radio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).



> Sequel to iloveyoudie’s Dreaming Spires Radio. I think it pretty much stands on its own but you should read hers first if you haven't already because it’s fantastic. 
> 
> Written for them Lewis Spring Challenge 2019. I had and entirely different plan which didn't involve any prompts at all when I signed up for the challenge. Then iloveyoudie mentioned the idea of a springtime Nightvale AU and here we are, with four prompts used no less.
> 
> This is for iloveyoudie, who provided much inspiration, and the rest of the FOH [phone sex voice] _you know who you are. ___

Trees are in full bloom all across our fair city, filling the streets with the scent of their perfume and the edges of our peripheral vision with those familiar swirling shadows that can’t quite be seen no matter how fast you turn your head. 

Do not fear the shadows, they mean you no harm. Unless you have personally offended their families. 

This is Dreaming Spires Radio and I am, as always, your host, James Hathaway. 

Welcome to the city of Oxford.

[theme music plays - Ventoux - Noverim Me]

The Morris Dancers have arrived earlier than usual this year and are especially virulent. One in six citizens who have come within earshot of them has joined their ranks, a sharp uptick from the usual one in ten. Our own intern Gurdip is one of them. See you after The Dance has concluded, Gurdip!

There are high concentrations of Dancers in the vicinity of the High Street entrances to The Covered Market and the steps of The Ashmolean, take extra care in those areas. Remember, humming a tune of your own devising is quite effective against The Dancers’ songs provided your humming doesn’t falter. 

The increased number of Dancers has led to workforce shortages, especially in hospitality and food service. Please be patient if your favourite pub or café is understaffed. Take the opportunity, while you wait for your order, to enjoy the springtime parting of the mists and contemplate the spires. Take note if any of the spires have grown new, smaller spires overnight. Inform the authorities immediately if they have. 

Any authorities. 

Just inform them.

[beat]

As you may remember, the beauty of our fair city has recently been enhanced by the arrival of one Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis.

[wistful] _Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis._

Has there ever been a more lyrical title and name combination?

Well, dear listeners, I have something to share with you about Robbie and myself. You may recall that Robbie asked me for a pub recommendation. I suggested The White Horse. It is important, I believe, to start with the classics. Yes, I know many of you think of The Eagle and Child when I say classics, but to those of you who do I ask this: Is it proper to subject someone so new to Oxford to the squabbling of the Narnians and the Middle-Earthers when they are only looking for a pint? I think not. 

We’ll save that for our second date. If it was a date. I’m not sure how one can tell such things, but I very much hope it was. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s just that, dear listeners, what a night it was. You can hardly blame me for looking forward to the next time Robbie and I will sit across from each other in a darkened corner of a pub.

Anyway. Or _anyroad_ , as Robbie so charmingly says. 

I arrived first by way of one of the station’s convenient but undisclosed tunnels. I waited on the pavement in front of the pub for mere minutes before Robbie came loping along toward me. What a sight he was in his tan suit and a shirt the colour of his eyes! He had removed his tie, which was stuffed in the pocket of his suit jacket, and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. I have never seen a man so beautiful.

‘Hello,’ he said. 

‘Hello,’ I said back. 

‘This is the pub, then?’ he asked, gesturing to the sign above the door with its white horse and the dripping viscous liquid which we were both careful not to stand directly beneath.

‘Yes,’ I said, and we went inside.

One of the tables by the window was empty. I wasn’t fast enough to stop Robbie sliding onto the bench against the wood-panelled wall. As soon as he sat down the staff and other patrons all turned to look at us as one. 

‘You’d better not sit there,’ I whispered, leaning toward him over the table.

‘Why not? It is reserved?’ he asked, looking first around the pub, then at the couple at the next table who were staring. 

‘It’s Old Man Morse,’ I said. ‘You know, from the pub.’ I pointed to the newspaper folded up in the corner of the bench with its crossword half-finished in pen. 

I imparted to Robbie the importance of leaving Old Man Morse, you know, from the pub, a place in every pub lest every pint be turned to orange juice. He asked where Old Man Morse, you know, from the pub was. I explained further that he is temperamental and unpredictable and could appear in any pub at any time. Robbie said that seemed daft and a waste of a perfectly good seat. But he did agree to move with me to a table at the back that had been recently vacated. 

And there, I suppose, I ought to pause to bring you more of today’s news.

[beat]

The Council, with the endorsement of Mayor Dexter, would like to remind all Oxford residents that strict adherence to this year’s Vernal wreath theme is advised. As always, I’ve taken the liberty of translating their statement from the original Latin for those of you who are still learning.

All Vernal wreaths are to include at least four different types of spring blooms in shades of yellow, purple, and pink. Red is not permissible this year, though orange may be used sparingly. Wreaths must also include at least three root vegetables. Vegetables that are round in nature are preferred; garlic, onions, beets, or turnips are optimal. 

Please note that the words ‘at least’ here hold a more than usually compulsive connotation in the original statement. I will be adding four root vegetables to my own wreath just to be safe.

As always, wreaths must be hung twenty-eight hours before the full moon preceding the lighting of Beltane bonfires. Remember, listeners, pay close attention to the timing. No one wants a repeat of last year’s Jericho incident, fanged rabbits were still being found lurking behind bins well into July.

[beat]

The Greater Oxfordshire Associated Triumvirate for Sculls, Punts, and Other Craft Small in Nature would like to remind the citizens of Oxford, now that punting season is upon us, that punting is not something to be entered into lightly. The wood of these boats has been floating upon our rivers far longer than most of us have been walking the streets. Please take care to perform the appropriate rituals prior to setting foot in a punt. Your blood sacrifices help keep the punts docile and ready to be enjoyed for generations to come.

When punting, do not forget that you must face the correct direction for your punting role at all times while on the water. New signs have been posted near all punt docking areas to replace those destroyed in the ritualised burning at the close of last year’s season. Even veteran punters should acquaint themselves with this year’s instructions. As always, there are subtle differences to last year that could result in punters being thrown to the mercy of the river if instructions are not strictly followed.

[beat]

All right, where was I?

It was warm in the White Horse, it being almost completely full, and Robbie removed his suit jacket before he sat down at our table. He then rolled up his sleeves, resting his perfectly muscled forearms on the table as we chatted. I must admit, I may have been a bit distracted by this and not up to my usual conversational standards. Robbie, gracious as he is, didn’t mention it. 

We shared two pints each. Robbie insisted on buying the first round, so of course, I bought a second. He seems to be settling into life in Oxford quite well, though he did ask about the sky again, which was a pleasant spring mauve outside the far windows. He said the sky ought to be more the colour of his shirt. I don’t know where he gets these fanciful notions, but I couldn’t help but be charmed by them. Can you imagine? A sky the same cerulean blue as Robbie Lewis’ eyes? It’s just as well it’s not. It would be impossible to walk around under a sky the colour of Robbie’s eyes without being constantly distracted by thoughts of him. I’d never get anything done.

Our evening was sadly cut short by the ringing of Robbie’s mobile. Police business, he said, looking genuinely regretful that he had to leave before we’d had a chance to try the White Horse’s Devon crab salad. I told him I would walk with him toward The Police Station as it was on my way home. He said that would be nice.

And it was. Very nice.

At the corner where he would turn right and I turned left, we stopped a moment. The sun was setting, the sky darkening from mauve to imperial purple, and there he was in his blue shirt and his hastily refastened maroon tie that so closely matched the sky. The creeping wisteria that clung to the building behind him waved its charming tentacles in the warm spring breeze and I was struck once again by this remarkable man. 

I think he may have been struck as well, by the beauty of the evening, because when I reached out to brush some wisteria petals from his shoulder he looked at me with those blue eyes of his as if I might be half as remarkable as he.

‘This is me,’ he said, gesturing behind him in the direction of The Police Station.

‘Right,’ I said.

‘A detective’s work is never really done,’ he said, with a regretful half smile.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘But maybe we could—’

‘Do this again?’ he asked before I even finished.

‘Yes,’ I said. 

‘I’d like that,’ he said. And he smiled a smile that could light up the world if only there was a way to harness that power. 

They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, listeners, but I think that on occasion it just might.

[beat]

Intern Julie has just handed me the traffic report. She’s looking quite well, by the way, after having ventured once again into the tunnels under the Bodleian, though thankfully only for a day this time. She only uttered one sentence in a dead language and it was one which I speak.

The ever-increasing numbers of Morris Dancers have lead to backups on High Street and the Banbury Road. There are reports that The Dancers may either be trying to encourage citizens to leave the city or trying to prevent them from leaving. The Dancers’ motivations are unclear since everyone who has tried to ask has joined The Dance before receiving an answer. 

Though it may slow your commute to a standstill, citizens are advised not to attempt to break up troupes of Dancers as they cross the road. Dancers are likely to become disorientated and on occasion violent when separated from their troupes. 

Troupes of Dancers have also begun to gather at the entrances to most colleges. Remember to hum very loudly as you go to your lectures today, students. 

Drivers should also take care in the vicinity of The Martyr’s Memorial where a gathering of Green Men is spilling over into the road. The gathering is likely to continue into next week so seeking alternate routes is advised.

And now, the weather.

[Fair Oxford - Campanae Oxoniae]

_It is Spring! The light has returned. As the days grow longer, the sun creeps into the dark spaces exposing the remnants of winter’s dead._

_That sun will shine on you as well._

_On your pale, winter skin. It will burn you._

_Be prepared._

_Drink to dull the pain. Drink Samuel Smith’s Old Brewery Pale Ale._ \- Samuel Smith, brewers of distinctive, well-balanced, and elegant beers since 1758.

[beat]

You’ll never guess who rang me during the weather break, listeners. Or maybe you will. If you guessed Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis you are right.

Detective Lewis has a very important message for you, listeners. He has informed me, in the dulcet tones of that beguiling accent of his, that The Morris Dancers’ songs have become more compelling over the course of the day. One in four citizens who have come within earshot of them have now taken up The Dance. Oxfordshire Police’s science consultant, Dr Laura Hobson, who is well versed in musical compulsion, believes that the unusually large number of Dancers is having a cumulative effect. There is hardly a spot left in the city where their bells and songs can’t be heard, rendering humming largely ineffective.

But do not fret, listeners, we need not prepare for a repeat of that fateful year when the entire citizenry took up The Dance. Robbie has a remarkable solution to this problem: Earplugs! He is as brilliant as he is easy on the eyes.

The Oxfordshire Police have set up stations throughout the city for earplug distribution. Citizens are urged to proceed immediately to the nearest earplug station as soon as you leave your home or place of business. Earplugs are free to all Oxford residents and visitors and will continue to be free as long a there are Dancers on our streets.

[beat]

The Friends of Hathaway would like to remind the citizens of Oxford that if you see any hooded figures wearing jewel-toned cloaks in various colours huddled together on street corners and near beds of flowers, do not be alarmed. Their quiet whispering means nothing. There is certainly nothing sinister going on. All will be revealed in time. Or it won’t.

Move along, now. 

Move along.

I will now, to thank the FOH for their continued generous and largely benevolent funding of this programme, read the list of words and phrases they have submitted this week.

[phone sex voice]

_Surreptitious._

_Denouement._

_Behavioural license._

_Cheerful promiscuity._

_Malfeasance._

_Cellar door._

_Amorous complications._

_Pernicious nonsense._

_Deftly._

And, as every week—

_Sexually._

[beat]

Listeners! Something extraordinary has happened! I’ve just received a text from Robbie. Well, multiple texts, actually. He said he forgot to ask me something when he rang earlier about the earplugs. He wanted to know what a Vernal wreath is. Apparently, that isn’t a tradition they have in Manchester.

I offered to have one of our station courier fowl drop some of the Council’s wreath construction pamphlets by The Police Station for him. As I’m sure you know, those pamphlets are full of useful tips on how to select the perfect blooms and root vegetables, as well as the best tying techniques for creating a wreath that will hold together well past the summer solstice for maximum protection. He said that would be helpful. 

But that wasn’t the extraordinary part. This is: Robbie then asked if I would teach him how to construct a wreath. Me! Of course, I said I would be happy to. I don’t know how he knew but I am, if I may say this, quite an accomplished wreath maker.

_Anyroad_ , Robbie will be coming by my flat on his way home tonight. He said he’ll bring takeaway and beer as a thank you for the help I have not yet even given him. I told him that was unnecessary. He insisted. What an utterly charming man.

So, that is my cue to leave you, dear listeners, as I have a few stops to make to gather the necessary materials for the perfect Vernal wreath before Robbie’s arrival at my flat. It is a good day, listeners. A good day.

May you all find such goodness in your day, dear citizens of Oxford. 

May all The Dancers be safe in their Dance and warm through the nights until the Dance concludes and they are returned to us. 

May your earplugs fit snugly and your wreaths be merry and bright. And may you find someone with a charming smile and eyes the colour of a fantasy sky who wants to build a wreath with you.

Good night, Oxford, on this most splendid night. Good night.

[theme song plays]

Station Manager Maddox here. The music this week, as it is every week, is brought to you by our own James Hathaway and his band Ventoux. The theme is Noverim Me by Ventoux, from their album Existential Giraffe, available on our website www.dreamingspiresradio.uk. The Weather was Campanae Oxoniae - a tribute to the ever-capricious bells of Oxford, from James’ experimental solo project, Fair Oxford, which has yet to be released. The project highlights, as James describes it: the many charming features of our fair city. Songs from the album can be streamed at www.soundcloud.com/fairoxford

You can also purchase Dreaming Spires and James Hathaway merchandise on our website, as well as download our show in podcast form.

Dreaming Spires Public Radio is paid for and funded by listeners like you. If you like what you hear, please donate!

Please someone other than the FoH donate. Don’t let their cheerfully coloured hooded robes lull you into a false sense of security. We are all, and especially James Hathaway, at their mercy. Please donate. 

And tweet at us @dreamingspiresradio to tell us what you think! Thank you.

_____


End file.
